Year Anew

They follow the solar calendar here on Soybean Island. Which means they recognize a new year in but a few days. I, personally, do not expect much by such a recognition, by the demarcation that is purely one of man's own construction.

No.

I did, however, return to the nameless Tree River Park out within the Homesteads just to have a look before this imaginary shift to another year occurs.

Yes, it was sunny and not bitterly cold, much to my disappointment. So far the winter here has not lived up to what winter here should be. Here. In winter.

But I was alone. (I am always alone.) And was free to look about and photograph this small parcel of nature in all its wondrous banality:

Moss above . . . A smidgen of ice below . . .

These spots of greenery disturb me. I want Black. Gray. Brown. Blood Red.

Ah--here is some Red: yes, even out here there are rules and regulations and the ever-present need to control:

I guess No means No!

But onward I walked, making my way to the spot I had discovered on my last and first visit to this non-sacred place among the corn, soybean, rutabaga fields:

Such forlorn stark beauty (sort of); Yes! (?).

But this time I saw something very odd across the bank, on the other side of this slow moving shallow riverlike river.

Look!

Wow!

Can you see it? The red markings among the trees? Some kind of sign or ancient communication! I was happily perplexed. It makes me think that there are others out there who feel as I feel and wish to show those feelings in a hidden and sublime protesting way just as I do with this blog, this blog which goes out into the mystery and remains a mystery . . .

Anyway, there was also this:

Was this significant compilation of dead wood made by beavers? No! Because there are no beavers on Soybean Island. So maybe it was a construct by the same rebellious partisans who made the red markings. Maybe. Perhaps. Or possibly they are but dead trees that fell or washed up like that . . .

I had to make my way back in order to catch the intermittent TV that travels out into the fields. And as I walked I had to wonder what the markings and the pile of wood meant, indeed if it even meant anything or if it was only symbolic within my insane mind. It was depressing to consider . . .

But then. Then. THEN! I came across this scribbled in the pebbly gravel dirt:

What? What? WHAT! is this?

Could this be ancient writing from the Ancient Habs who once lived and thrived and killed each other on the island before they were killed in turn by The Apparatus and invading Soybean Islanders? Could it?

Yet, it looked fresh.

Could there still exist some remnants, some holdouts, of the Ancient Hab race out here in the woods? Could there be descendants of the original aboriginal native natives and they are trying to communicate to each other or to the prisoner souls like me? Could, possibly or impossibly, there be an attempt at revolution somewhere down the line in some year and maybe possibly impossibly in the very next one that comes in but a few days?

Could there?

I do not know. But I am happy to think so.

And that's the best I can do for now and now I must sign out, over and out:

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

# Oneninefiveseven

In The Box

Though the prisoners on Soybean Island are a multicultural lot, the local population tend to be of the pale and Christian persuasion. Religion, however--much like other institutions here--is but a shadow play to the true master.

Nonetheless, certain holidays are observed.

The one coming up often involves boxes:

Soybean Island style, anyway . . .

And what comes in these militaristic-looking steel gift boxes?

A doll?

(Strange and somewhat disturbing ones, yes.)

Or some healthy fruit and vegetables?

(Not very likely!)

Or an inspirational quote?

(From an inspirational non-Christian--also not very likely.)

Hmm  . . .

Maybe inside the box could be the lost teeth of a Soybean Island Snail?

(How absurd!)

Could it be simply a metal post?

(They are very fond of posts here, as well as sticks with colored ribbons attached to them: A great gift idea!)

Ah, but none of that is very likely here. More likely would be to get a nice bucket of electronic surveillance. A gift that's really more about the giver than the receiver . . . But perhaps that surveillance will come in a somewhat crucifix form at this time of year:

One never knows . . .

But really, what does it matter?

Here, upon this cold island, we all live in a box. We are all boxed in. We all box each other into smaller boxes within the box of the island itself. We all live within the box of the spinning sphere within the box of the galaxy within the box of the big bang of all boxes. And who will open us? For whom are we a gift for ? ? ?

Shall we never know?

Well, here is my unboxed gift for you, dear non-rescuer non-reader:

Some utterly pointless photos!

Enjoy!

And you're welcome!

And for me? A gift photo for my lonesome self?

This:

What a dangerous picture to post. What a torturous photo for me. And yet, it fills me with hope and futuristic desire and concrete unplanned plans and it is about the only gift I can expect at this moment within the cosmic box we all find ourselves within.

Yes.

Oneninefiveseven:

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Current Events

Yes:

Not much going on in Soybean Island City upon the prisoner isle of Soybean Island.

Of course, not everyone here knows they are a prisoner and some are not prisoners, and yet, they are. Anyone and everyone who resides here and abides by its authority is a prisoner of some sort. And those who mete out the rules and punishments are prisoners of those rules and discipline. And those at the top who chase money and power as if the world was made of money and power--they too are prisoners, prisoners of the endless chase, prisoners of the worry and pleasure.

Ah, but I digress . . .

Let's look at some architecture:

A wall of brick, two buildings and a wall of fencing. Stunning! And on such a gray day! Ho ho ho, always something to look at here in SIC.

Of course, such prisons are often of their own making. My prison is of The Apparatus' making and that is why I seek escape. I want to be free to make my own prison, to go about my own circled routine, to have my own self-made delusions and live my days in peace and solitude in an apolitical jail cell of trees and rocks and rivers (or some such).

But here

is where I am.

X marks the spot:

Or, perhaps, K marks the spot:

Nonetheless, I feel I can tell you that the power structure here is a corporate one. That the whole island is run by a corporation with the local government serving only as shadow theater for those who need it. No, the real rulers are the ruthless capitalists--nay, oligarchs--who own and run Soybean Island part and parcel. Government, education, freedom are but shams. Money is the ruler of the rulers and if a thing cannot turn a profit, why then, there is no profit in the thing. Breath, Thought, Heart are pointless if there be no financial gain.  Elan vital? Pneuma? Please . . .

Money is real. Profundity is but smoke:

I only live--breath, eat, defecate, think--because there is a profit. The authority--The Apparatus--makes money on me and my fellow exile/prisoners/rendered-human-flesh, paid for by some respective government or government agency or some other oligarch out there in the world . . . So, you wonder, why do I want to return to that world if it is what has sent me to this prisoner island?

A fair question.

Certainly when it is all added up when the sum of life is put together it all comes down to hopelessness. That is the answer to all human equations. Yes.

But how big a cage? What kind of cage do you want your dose of hopelessness served in?

Not this one, I would surmise:

Even within penultimate hopelessness, hope still resides.

Or is it the other way around . . .

What's this?

More fenced in power, ugly as a newborn gila monster yet not as empathetic.

Indeed, these are the current events of SIC, of Soybean Island, where the individual is fenced out of power and where profit--that absurd and abstract notion--that soulless seraphic chimera mirage--phantasm, delusion, hallucinatory ignis fatuus of the mind--is what runs everything.

Yes.


There is no more to report.

Goodbye from Soybean Island,

# Oneninefiveseven